“We can’t trust any of the Windonhigh witches,” Lucien says. “You saw them—they don’t want things to change. They want their Glass Tree and their Heartless to defend against outsiders. If they find out we’re going to weaken the Glass Tree, they won’t be keen on helping us.”

I feel a sting in my unheart. “But Nightsinger might. She’d want to help me—”

“We can’t take the risk.” Lucien looks to me. “You understand, right?”

I breathe in shakily and nod. Lucien strokes his thumb over mine, as if trying to comfort me. He’s right. We have to do it before any interested party can find out and try to stop us. Nightsinger’s and Lucien’s combined magic would have better odds at splitting the First Root, and Lucien wouldn’t have to lose himself over it, or worse—die. But he won’t die. He won’t need to split the First Root on his own. They think that’s how it will go, how it must go. But it won’t.

They have to live. All of them. They have to live, and the world has to change.

The Tree has to be put back together.

the wolf will eat the world, the hunger hisses.

Yorl’s stomach gurgles just at that moment, a welcome reprieve of levity as Malachite snickers and Yorl’s ochre face tints darker with his blush.

“All right, enough serious talk.” I grin. “Can’t plan strategy without something to eat, now, can we?”

I usher everyone up the stairs and set about delivering the dried meat and fruit the Black Archives gave us to the few polymaths working the ship. I come back to the captain’s quarters with rations and a bottle of wine to lift everyone’s spirits, and as soon as I open the door, the sound of arguing filters out.

“What do we tell the beneathers, then?” Yorl demands. “How do we get them to carve a way into Pala Orias for us? Any actual ideas, or is it just empty battle-lust in that head of yours?”

“Battle’s not the point, arse-licker!” Malachite bellows. “We won’t have to carve anything anywhere if we use Six-Eyes’ dream thing right! We tell Varia where we are at just the right time, and we won’t have to lose so many spiritsdamn beneathers to the valkerax!”

Fione’s buried herself in the green-covered book again, trying desperately to do something useful instead of adding fuel to the argument. Lucien looks up when I come in, flashing me a tired grin and motioning for me to sit by him. I flop into the chair next to him and clunk the wine bottle down on the table.

“Do I need to put you two down for nappy time?” I chime. “Or can we talk about this like civilized folk?”